The Library of Fates(76)

I closed my eyes and asked, and when I opened them, we were there.

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The shelves reached all the way to the sky, and they were filled with more books than I had ever seen in my life. The books appeared to be speaking, whispering, no different than the sound of birds chirping in the morning at Shalingar Palace.

“Where do we go?” I asked him before he took my hand and led me to a shelf that held a series of leatherbound books. My father’s. My mother’s. Sikander’s. Arjun’s. Thala’s. Bandaka’s. Shree’s. Tippu the gardener’s. Mala’s. Everyone I had ever known. I found my own book, bound in green.

When I opened it to the first page, there was a stamp across it.

OUT OF CIRCULATION, it said. I smiled and tucked it into my satchel before I reached for my father’s book.

I spent that day reading their stories, one after another. Maybe it was a day. Maybe it was days. I couldn’t say. All I knew was that time didn’t exist here. I was never tired or hungry or wanting. There was no day or night.

I read and read and marveled at all the lives of everyone I had ever loved: the richness of their experiences, the tastes they relished and remembered, the smells that were imprinted on their senses, the pleasures and pains of their bodies, the wisdom they acquired, the people they loved and lost, the fears that they hid, the identities they carried like masks.

Varun watched me read those words. He looked content just to be sitting beside me for all those hours or days, or whatever it was. Some space that existed between day and night, between dream and waking.

At the end of it, I took out a pen and added only one line in Thala’s book.

“That’s it?” Varun asked.

I shook my head. “I don’t need to change anything else,” I said. “This world”—I gestured to the books—“it’s as perfect as anything can be. I was lucky just to be a part of it.”

Varun smiled before he took my hand. Now it was his turn to share his story.

He told me about all those years without me. He told me about the world and how it had changed, what he had seen and heard on all those pilgrimages to Mount Moutza. He told me the entire universe as he knew it.

And when he kissed me, it was with longing and desire, the kind that can only come of hundreds of years of waiting.

I understood then why he had seemed so familiar that day on the road to Mount Moutza. There had always been a deep and magnetic power between us. Only, I didn’t know it.

The world was full of mysteries, abundant with magic. Now I knew.





Epilogue



I COME HERE TWICE A YEAR, when the veil between the living and the dead, the gods and the mortals, is lifted. I sit, with Varun by my side, offering up my blessings. People say that I am an irreverent goddess. I don’t necessarily believe in the power of my own blessings, but others sometimes do. I don’t fault them.

I don’t believe that anyone is more powerful than anyone else. I believe that anyone can change. I believe there are mysteries built over even more powerful mysteries, and it takes lifetimes to unearth them.

When I am not here, I travel to other places, other worlds that I never imagined existed.

But this is still one of my favorite places. It’s my old home, the kingdom that I once lived in.

Chandradev is older now, in his forty-fifth year. He comes twice a year to greet me, but this year, he brings along a woman whose face I instantly recognize. She is older too, but she still has those green eyes, that gait that is so familiar. When I reach for her hand, I feel as though I am holding my own hand.

Chandradev introduces her as Thea. He tells me that his old friend Sikander the Great has died. His throne was handed to a distant relative, a nephew. “Thea and I knew one another a long time ago, in Macedon,” he tells me, and I listen to their story, even though I already know it.

I know that Chandradev will marry her. That they’ll live many more years together. That they’ve earned their love for each other after all these years apart.

Perhaps I look familiar to them, but they don’t recognize me. That’s the thing I’ve learned about humans: Their minds are too fixed. They see me only as Maya, or as the Goddess. They have no idea that in another life, I was their child. That in another life still, in this life, a long time ago, I was their friend, their classmate.

I bless them and ask about their plans for the next season, for the year. It’s one of the things I miss most about being human. There were always plans.

“I’m handing the throne down too. My successor is like a son to me.”

“Arjun?” I ask, and Chandradev nods.

Arjun visits the temple sometimes too. He still brings small gifts for me. Sometimes a scarf, or a bracelet made out of jasmine buds. Another time, a seashell.

“He’ll make an excellent maharaja,” I tell Chandradev. And I know that he will, that he gives every part of himself to the things and people he loves. And he loves this kingdom.

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After the pujas, I watch people tuck parchment into the crevices of the temple. They bring gifts: garlands of marigold, boxfuls of juicy golden jalebi. Mangoes and pomegranates, guavas and figs. I distribute the food to anyone who comes to me, asking for my blessings, asking for advice.

I’ve learned that it’s best not to interfere too much. The best I can do is be there and listen to anyone who needs to be heard.